Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (25 page)

“
Yo
u’
re a witness.  Got that?  Nothing more.  So
I’
m warning you, Alain
a
—”

It takes all my willpower not to slam the door when I jump out.  I feel ridiculous for thinking he wanted me. 
I’
m just another potential vic to him.  Another topless dancer like Ang.  One more poor college student danci
n
’ up there on stage at Oma
r’
s in my trampy harem outfit and making all the perverts want to murder me.

I shoul
d’
ve listened to my mom.  Colbys do
n’
t mix it up with cops.  Not in Mustangs, not in cop cruisers, and damn well not in the front seat of boring freaki
n
’ Buicks.
 “
So I ca
n’
t take care of myself? 
I’
m just a dumb helpless vic
?
”

“
Alaina,
I’
m sorry, I did
n’
t mean to make it sound like that, trust me
.
” 

I snort.
 “
Trust you?  Yeah, sure
.
”
 
The last idiot male that told me that was Robin. 

“
I did
n’
t mean to offend you.  I
like
your harem outfit, dammit.  I do.  I
t’
s pretty, uh, uniqu
e
—”

I will
not
permit this oversized LEO to toy with my feelings.
Shaking with rage,
I storm away, but then I change my mind and stomp back to his side of the car.
 “
Down
!
”
 
I gesture.

Down comes the drive
r’
s side window.  I lean in and stare into his eyes.
 “
Go find Officer Barbie and diddle her plastic boobs!  You two are alike!  Yo
u’
re both fake
!
”

That shoulda set him back, but with that sexy Elvis sneer
I’
m finding irresistible, he says
,“
Just make sure you do
n’
t run off.  I might need to ask you more questions
.
”

Just like that, the urge hits me, and I lean in and kiss him hard, grinding my lips into his.
 “
Get lost
,”
I say.
 “
Leave me the fuck alone
.
” 

Then I stomp back around the front of his car and take the steps up the front porch of Stok
e’
s crack house.  This is seedy?  So freaki
n
’ what?  I
t’
s my worl
d—
Cri
p’
s.  I
t’
s raw, but at least i
t’
s real.  I bet Detective Hawks goes home to . . . what?  A cheesy little two-bedroom apartment?  I bet his be
d’
s empty, too, self-righteous bastard. 

I check my jealous thoughts.  No way this hottie sleeps alone!  Dammit!

“I’
ll pick you up after your shif
t’
s over at Oma
r’
s and drive you home
,”
Aidan yells at my retreating back.
 “
You might not like it, but
I’
m going to keep an eye on you until we find out wh
o’
s dumping bodies in the alley
.
”

Berta Colby would be proud of me: I flip him the bird over my shoulder and keep climbing steps.  For good measure, I wiggle my butt in a lewd suggestive dance step I learned from Ang. 

Get an eye full, Aidan Hawks. 

I want to dislike him, to never see him again, but my heart turns traitor and leaps at his last words.  I
t’
s been a crappy day, a crappy week; in fact, i
t’
s been a crappy life, but even if i
t’
s not a date, if i
t’
s just Detective Hawks doing his job,
I’
ll see him again after I get off work at Oma
r’
s.  Did
n’
t he just promise to keep an eye on me?  I
t’
s something to look forward to.

At the top of the steps, I turn.  Two thugs hovering nearby break loose from a cluster of guys and amble toward me.  I want to lash out, so I yell at them.
 “
Hey, i
t’
s not a good idea, with Detective Hawks sitting nearby in that unmarked
.
”
 
I point toward Aida
n’
s Buick.

Their gazes glued to the sidewalk, they slide on past Stok
e’
s building.

Chapter 22

I bang my knuckles against the dirty white front storm door, its glass missing and hanging from one hinge.
 “
Hullo?  Stoke, you home
?
” 

This neighborhood hosts some of Cincinnat
i’
s worst gang violence, including a bunch called Quiet Money, Inc. 

“
Screw manners
.
”
 
Keeping my eyes on the thugs slinking closer to the front porch, I step inside the door and land gingerly in the dim front hallway of Stok
e’
s apartment.  Turning, I give Aidan a quick wave, letting him know
I’
m safe.  Seeing my signal, he drives off, but the hoods on the corner making the dope deal have figured out he does
n’
t belong here, so the
y’
ve been ignoring hi
m—
until now.  Watching the Buick disappear, they turn their attention to me.

“
Stoke
,”
I say, wishing h
e’
d show his face
,“
you here?  I need to talk
.
” 

This is a crack house in a badass neighborhood. 
I’
m not shocked by the drug paraphernalia. 
I’
m also not afraid of the thug
s—
Goshen Colbys fear nothing.  Yet this place creeps me out.  Like Bric
k’
s office, it could use light bulbs.  Stoke warned me it was a dump, but
I’
m desperate to find out if h
e’
s made Oma
r’
s deposit, so
I’
ve gotta find him.  If h
e’
s not already gone back to my place like he promised, then I also need to get my apartment key back from Stoke.  And ther
e’
s the issue of asking him to help me find An
g’
s killer.

At the bank of grimy metal mailboxes in the foyer, I find Stok
e’
s apartment.  B-1.  Basement. 

I hurry to the end of the hallway and, glancing back toward the open front door, in case the thugs have decided to do something stupid like stalk me, I punch the door leading down to the basement with my index finger.  It creaks open.

“
Hmmm
,”
I say.  Fighting the willies that take over and give me goosebumps, I give it another punch with my index finger.  I
t’
s unlocked, a padlock and thick chain dangling loosely from the grimed door facing.  This is odd.  Stok
e’
s fanatical about his stuff.  Claims the dopers are always ripping off college students.
 “
I want them all to die from overdoses
,”
h
e’
s fond of saying, like h
e’
d like to kill them himself.  That makes zero sense to me, but I accept him with all his little quirks.

That does
n’
t mean
I’
m not inclined to snoop.  Call it curiosity, but now that
I’
m here
I’
d like to learn how Stoke lives.
 “
Curiousity is a good quality for a future lawyer
,”
Professor Levin used to say.
 “
Or an FBI agent
,”I’
d argue back. 

Or maybe my snoopin
g’
s merely a bad habit, one tha
t’
s also illegal, like trespassing.  When Robin and I were little, Berta took us into homes during the day.  For years, we burglarized our neighbor
s
’ houses while they were at work.  It was how we got money.  We did it as a way of life.  Berta fenced the stolen booty from our burglaries, and then used the money to buy booze and drugs for her and her boyfriends.

I take a tentative step down the bare wooden steps, the only light coming from the open front door disappearing behind me, making me feel isolated, alone.  A few steps down, I stop, sniff the air.  Wha
t’
s that
smell
?  I
t’
s like somebod
y’
s left something burning on a stovetop.  It smells like burnt hamburger wit
h—
I sniff again.
 “
Ugh
!
”

I
t’
s dank smelling, like scorched blood. 

I start backing up the steps, deciding after all that Stok
e’
s private lif
e’
s not all that interesting.  This does
n’
t feel right.  H
e’
s not here.  Maybe I should
n’
t be, either.

I’
m backing up the basement steps, wishing
I’
d asked Aidan to drop me off at my apartment instead of here, when someone grabs my arm and I scream.

Chapter 23

              Who is the girl on the table?  She looks like a fallen angel.  Pale, thin.  Her alabaster skin sports a bluish sheen.  Shock? 

He approaches her carefully.  She terrifies him, yet he feeds on his fear of her beauty.  I
know
him: h
e’
s enjoying a sexual fantasy of his invention, one so extreme no one could interrupt, or thwart.

I switch my gaze from her face to his, and then back.  Sh
e’
s more terrified than he is.

He touches her face, caresses her.  She whimpers, a pupp
y’
s cry.  It electrifies my groin.  I want to run to her, pull her to me, comfort her.

But I do
n’
t.

Do
n’
t whimper.  Please do
n’
t whimper.
 

I beg silently.
 “
It excites him
,”
I want to tell her, but do
n’
t.

His shadow falls across her, taking possession.  A macabre specter, h
e’
s growing, empowered by the gir
l’
s increasing fear, whipped into a surreal phantasm by the overhead surgical lam
p’
s yellow-pink glar
e—
and the table with its gleaming dental pics.

              She whimpers again. 
Stop fucking whimpering!
 

I feel my sympathy for her dip, and then disappear.  Why are women so stupid?

The gurney gleams, a stainless steel mirror reflecting the gir
l’
s frail outline, clenched hands, the plastic ties cutting into her angry red wrists.  I squeeze shut my eyes and beg her one last time. 
Stop, stop, stop!

No escape.  No escape.  Slowly I draw open an eyelid, then another, and this time I feel nothing.  Eyes widening like a frightened do
e’
s, she whimpers past the duct tape. 

Stupid bitch!  Yo
u’
ve shoul
d’
ve listened to me!

“
Shall we show her our love
,”
he says.
 “
Sh
e’
s just a dancing whore, but we can forgive her
.
”

Did he speak?  Or . .. . did I say that?

I’
m unsure wh
o’
s speaking.  I tremble, embracing the jack-hammering joy building to a heady climax.  I stare at the girl again.  Nothing.  Sh
e’
s the same as the rest. 
I’
ve stared at them all.  I
t’
s not about her.  I
t’
s about
me
.  Detective Hawks wants to know who I am.  H
e’
s not interested in saving
them
. 

In a moment, I wo
n’
t recognize her, nor she me.

“
No, Hawks
,”
I say
,“
you want to know me so damn well, to know who I am
?
”

Oh, h
e’
s not here, but I can still talk to him, ca
n’
t I?

I . . . sense his curiosity when I follow him around town, struggling as he does to learn the identity of Megalo Don. 
Not yet, Detective Hawks. 
I’
m not ready for you yet.  I
t’
s too early.

I’
ve known cops like him before.  My exquisite fear morphs, a dizzying feeling of power ascends from my groin to my head, so intense my eyeballs feel like the
y’
re popping.  Wh
o’
s he to frighten me?  No one. 

My fear, having transcended its usual route, turns into a healthy anger, a black marble in my mind, on which I focus all my lov
e—
and hate.  Mother. 

What did
she
do to deserve her fate?  Danced like a naked whore to earn a living. 

“
Mother
.
”
 
I say her name, press my lips togethe
r—
Mothe
r
—
like the nam
e’
s some kind of prayer. 
Mom.
  Who whored for me, danced naked for all those lowlife mother fuckers salivating and panting after her puss
y
—

I stop.  The anger reaches its crescendo and then boils in a white-hot peak.  I savor the explosion, erupting as I think of the man wh
o’
s decided i
t’
s his job to stop me.

Oh, yes.  Hawks will find me.  I know his fucking MO.  I
t’
s okay, though.  I want to be caught because every fucking day
I’
m no
t—
every time Detective Hawks fails to figure out who I am and why
I’
m tagging along after his as
s—
the man in front of me is going to make another angel.  I lower my gaze, but ca
n’
t block the gir
l’
s sad little snuffing sounds.

“
Out, out brief candle
,”
I whisper, no longer wishing to disturb the play unfolding before my eyes, the pathetic drama taking place on the stainless steel gurney. 

“
Lif
e’
s but a walking shadow.  All the worl
d’
s a stage, and we are but player
s
—”

Wh
o’
m I kidding? 
I’
m just the fucking stage hand here. 
H
e’
s
the main act. 

I glance toward the gurney.  Sh
e’
s quiet now.  No more puppy whimpers. 

Is this the calm before the storm?

“
Are you ready
?”
he asks, his gaze begging me silently to say yes.

“
Yes,
I’
m ready
.
” 

If all the worl
d’
s a stag
e—
and
I’
m sure it i
s—
then
I’
ve got one more act to prepare for, one more final performance.

Yes, yes, yes!  Fucking yes! 

I watch him choose a scalpel to tease the corner of the duct tape from her lips.  Grasping it with practiced precision, he peels it off slowly to avoid injuring her petulant little mouth. 

Oh!  Oh!  Here it comes!

“
Nooooooo
!
” 

She clamps shut her mouth.  He smashes it open with the stainless steel speculum and then inserts it, clamping her jaws wide. 

“
There, there
,”
he soothes
,“
as I once heard him sooth Mother
.
” 

The gir
l’
s screams shatter the silence and bounce from the roo
m’
s walls. 

All I can think i
s—
I told her to stop fucking whimpering.

I wait.  At last comes sweet blessed silence. 

Did he do this to my mother?  Did he make her scream this way?  And then . . . did he wash himself in her blood and collect his trophies from her mouth?  I know this: he cut her teeth from her jaw bone like pearls from an oyster shell.